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Why Halloween will never be the same

Abigail Sullivan, Director of Photography

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As a kid, there was nothing like Halloween. Not only was it the one day I could walk out of the house dressed as a mermaid without my mom telling me to go back inside and put on “real clothes,” but it was the day I could drown myself in sugar and no one would think twice.

Photo courtesy of Abigail Sullivan

My mom would hand-make my costumes every fall. She would drag me and my sister to the nearest craft store and fill up the cart with various sewing pat­terns and obnoxious fabrics.

For hours, she would slave over her Singer sewing sequins and hot-glue felt circles like she was a pageant mom on TLC.

From Humpty Dumpty to a cupcake with a cherry on top, my mom knew how to go above and be­yond the typical witch and princess costumes.

When I was five, she dressed me as the Chiq­uita Banana Lady. The costume consisted of a ruffled, cream-colored pirate shirt; a long, black, ruffled skirt; purple-ruffled wrist cuffs; large clip-on hoop earrings and an assortment of fake fruit hot-glued to a hat on my head.

My mom was pretty much a Pin­terest board.

I distinctly remember stand­ing over the bathroom sink as my mom applied eyeliner to complete the costume. She gave me strict in­structions to not open my eyes until the black liquid had dried, but like any child, I did the complete oppo­site of what my mother told me and some­how smeared the makeup all over my face.

Although I left the local costume contest empty-handed that night, I was still the cutest Chiquita Banana Lady to roam the streets of Woodville.

All of the costumes my mom made were thoughtful and well planned, but it all went downhill when I decided it was time to make a decision on my own.

I didn’t want a one-size-fits-all 1950s Pink Lady costume from one of those cheap Halloween stores, I wanted a costume that embodied true strength and power.

After many nights spent online looking for a costume, it came to me: what is more powerful than the force of nature?

In 2007, I decided to be a tornado. Once a di­saster, always a disaster.

First, I stuffed pillow filling into white mesh tubing and sewed the ends by hand. I strategically

placed and glued various debris around the out­line of the funnel.

I was an unemployed 13-year-old at the time and I was working with a small budget. The buck­eye tree in my side yard graciously provided the sticks and leaves, and my aunt’s basement provid­ed the toy cars, army men and farm animals.

After wrapping the mesh around me and teasing my hair to look like a modern day Ke$ha, I was an F-5 waiting to do some damage.

That year I went from house to house with my closest friends and begged for candy.

I don’t know about you, but I didn’t sport the typical, glow-in-the-dark, plastic pumpkin around my wrist. I was a classy lady and I back­packed a pillowcase, Tom Sawyer-style, and you can bet your ass that at the end of the night, it was full.

Unfortunately, there’s always a time in your life when you do something for the last time.

2007 was my last year trick-or-treating. The years after that were spent collect­ing money for UNICEF and helping my parents pass out candy on the front porch, and till this day noth­ing comes close to the feeling of sitting down after a long, sweaty trip around town, grabbing the bottom corners of my pillowcase and watching my night’s accomplish­ments spill before me.

Although Halloween now lacks candy and well thought-out costumes, it will forever remind me of my care­free child­hood and endless imagina­tion.

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Serving the University of Toledo community since 1919.
Why Halloween will never be the same